I dried my tears, and when I began to speak again, my voice was raspy. I asked for a drink of water. Vladimir Fyodorovitch stood up, disappeared through a door, and returned with a glass and two bottles. Meanwhile, I turned and was surprised to see that six other people had come into the office and were seated in chairs along the wall behind me, watching everything that I did, listening to every word.
With a bit of a flourish, Vladimir Fyodorovitch poured a glass of water for me.
"This is mineral water from this district," Tanya was telling me, "This district has very clear, clean water."
The bottle was held up for me to see as if it were fine wine. I looked at the label. It bore a picture of the village. With my rudimentary knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet, I was able to sound out the word, "Al-ek-san-drov-ka," I said, pronouncing the syllables slowly. A murmur of approval came from the group behind me. I felt I had just passed a test. I drank the water.
"Perhaps you would like some kvas," Tanya said, translating Vladimir Fyodorovitch's next offer.
"Kvas?"
"It's a traditional Ukrainian drink," she explained,"It's made from fermented bread dough." And then I remembered reading about this strange beverage in a travel guide. I would have to drink it.
Hiding my reluctance, I smiled and nodded my acceptance. Vladimir Fyodorovitch poured the brown liquid into my glass. If it would help him change his mind and let me adopt Denis, I would drink a whole glass. Dear God, I prayed silently, please just let me manage to get this down without making a face! I lifted the glass, "My very first taste of kvas," I announced somewhat dramatically. All eyes in the room were on me.
It was mild, a little like apple cider, but yeasty-tasting. Not bad, really. Drinkable, thank God. Vladimir Fyodorovitch actually smiled. I felt I had just passed another test.
"Vladimir Fyodorovitch would like to know if you would like a tour of the village," Tanya said to me.
"Yes, certainly," I said, "But I really would like to know exactly where we are."
This must have pleased Vladimir Fyodorovitch, because I was ushered into a small room where maps of the district and of Ukraine hung on the walls. Vladimir Fyodorovitch pointed out the village to me, then explained the location of the collective farms on the district map. I studied his maps with interest.
Why, I wondered, did he want me to see his village? Was he trying to underline the fact that his people could care for their orphans? What on earth, I kept asking myself, does this man want?
We went outside, and a large car was brought round for us. We went first to see a park, then a small historical museum which was, like every museum I'd seen in Russia and Ukraine, exceptionally well organized. Vladimir Fyodorovitch pointed out pictures of his relatives. Most had been photographed with members of the politburo. One had been taken with Premier Kruschev. I felt a chill in my veins. Wasn't Vladimir Fyodorovitch aware that communism was dead?
Next we visited a small hospital/clinic complex, and after that, a home for elderly veterans. Unlike the hospital I'd visited in Kherson, this one was spotlessly clean. The veteran's home was also clean. The veterans appeared to be well-tended and comfortable. I thought about the old people I'd encountered outside the churches in Kiev who were destitute and reduced to begging because the recent inflation had made their pensions nearly worthless.
We drove past other sights, including a great statue of Lenin which still stands before the main government building in the village. We toured a summer camp that had once been for the communist youth organization, the Young Pioneers. Here, as on each stop of our tour, people reacted with great surprise when they were told that I was visiting from America. Vladimir Fyodorovitch seemed proud of himself to have an American guest. People were polite, deferential, even. Everywhere we went, we were followed by a small entourage. I believe now that I must have been the first American citizen ever to set foot in Bolshoi Aleksandrovka.
And somewhere in all this, it struck me. This is what Vladimir Fyodorovitch wanted -- to be seen showing the American the sights, leading the tour, doing the honors. At that moment I was not an overweight, middle-class, middle-aged woman from Aurora, Illinois, and he was not merely an official of a district in rural Ukraine. In his eyes, I was the important American visitor and he was the official host. He was Gorbachev and I was George Bush! Once I understood this, I relaxed and played my role. I complimented everything I found praiseworthy, I smiled at everyone, I made jokes that made even Vladimir Fyodorovitch laugh.
At the end of the grand tour, we entered a building, climbed some stairs, and were ushered into a room with a long table laid for luncheon. It was a table beautifully, almost artistically, arranged, set with fine dishes and lovely table linens, obviously all done with great care for a distinguished guest of honor. And it was at that moment that I knew that Denis would be coming home.
At the meal we drank wine made from the grapes of the area's vineyards. The people at the table were curious about life in America and asked many questions.In typical Ukrainian style, many toasts were offered, for continued friendship between our countries, for the health and safety of my family, for the future of Ukraine, for all the children of the world. I was deeply touched.
We were sent home, later that day, with gifts of more wine and kvas, and small handmade items crafted by children in the district's art classes. I thanked Vladimir Fyodorovitch and as I shook his hand I told him, "I will never forget this day."
We returned to the village once more, the following week, for court. The judge was a young woman who asked to see my plane tickets dated the following week so that she could waive the ten-days it usually took to make an adoption final. During the proceedings, we could hear roosters crowing outside the window of the small rural courthouse. Denis became Denis Ignatyevitch Tho O'Riordan.
I stopped by Vladimir Fyodorovitch's office and gave him presents, including a bottle of cream liqueur from the O'Riordans' Irish homeland. He seemed pleased, almost embarrassed, that I had thought of him.
The following days were spent dealing with the rest of the considerable red tape involved in foreign adoption. Denis was issued a new birth certificate and a passport. In Kiev, we took him to a medical clinic for the requisite physical examination. We had to visit the American embassy as well as all the necessary Ukrainian government offices. The embassy approved Denis's documents, but in order to obtain his immigrant visa, we needed to go not to Moscow, but to Warsaw.
As we drove from the airport to our hotel in Warsaw, I felt I was a million miles away from Ukraine. The economy of Poland is more like Western Europe than Russia and Ukraine. Ukraine is desperate and confused in its stuggle to become a capitalist economy. At present it is not doing well. Several times people in Ukraine told me, "We are on the eve of starvation." The world of Vladimir Fyodorovitch, where the collective farms still operate, where the government still provides, however meagerly now, for its orphans, the ill, and the elderly is fast disappearing. I pray for the people of Ukraine. I fear for their future.
Until we adopted him, Denis spent his life, from the age of five months, in an orphanage. Institutionalization can kill a child's spirit, permanently damaging his ability to attach to others, interfering with the development of a conscience and the ability to feel compassion or reciprocate love and affection. None of this happened to Denis, though. He loves his new family, he is kind and gentle with animals and small children, he is quick to sense when someone feels hurt. From all this I know that, contrary to what I had so greatly feared, Denis was very well cared for in the orphanages in Ukraine. There may not have always been quite enough food and clothing, but he was loved. For that I will always be deeply grateful to the Ukrainian women who took care of him. Denis has survived, as Tanya so aptly put it, "with his soul intact."
Denis is learning English, settling into the family, assimilating into American life. Garrett has learned a little Russian, and he and Denis communicate in a comical mishmash of English and Russian words. A few weeks ago Denis drew a picture for me of a large Russian samovar surrounded by characters from Disney's Beauty and the Beast.He sometimes sings little Russian songs to me as we travel in the car. He is pleased with America, often pointing out things to me that he thinks are beautiful. And we are delighted with him. He can be as full of mischief as any other little boy, of course, and he seems to have a great sense of humor.
No one has taken down the old snapshot of him hanging on our refrigerator door. After waiting so long, perhaps it will take us all awhile to really believe that our dreams have come true. Four and a half years is a very long time to a little boy, but Denis held on to his hope that the American family would come back to adopt him all that time. The little boy we waited so long for is now our son. Thanks be to God, as the Ukrainians so often say, Denis is home!
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